The Arrow Keeper’s Song (22 page)

“Captain Huston said we could join you,” Willem casually announced.

“He even told us to look after you,” Enos said, his voice hoarse and distorted as it issued from his bruised throat.

Tom folded his hands on the pommel of his saddle. He could feel the attention of the nearby soldiers who watched with a mixture of sympathy and morbid fascination. The mountains of the Sierra Maestra loomed in the distance; those peaks, towering well over eight thousand feet, made a silent but ultimately forbidding panorama. Taking so few men into such an ominous landscape, even though Joanna promised a two-day ride, seemed the height of foolishness, bordering on suicide. There was a formidable Spanish force encamped around Santiago. No doubt there were patrols waiting in the shadow of the mountains eager to pounce and draw first blood against the American army.

“Suit yourself,” Tom said. Tully and Philo were completely taken aback that Sandcrane voiced no objection. “Fall in behind the wagon.”

Willem muttered beneath his breath, his remarks for Enos alone. The broad-shouldered Cheyenne shrugged and followed Willem to the rear of the column. He made a point of staring belligerently at Tom as he rode past. Tully trotted his mount up alongside Sandcrane, and his worried expression spoke volumes.

“We can use the guns,” Tom said, hoping to appease the man's objections.

Tully Crow wagged his head from side to side, making it clear he wasn't buying into Tom's logic. “Depends on who they're aimed at.”

Hour after hot, interminable hour, Daiquirí baked beneath a dust-colored haze that stretched from the water's edge to half a mile inland. The military commanders had insisted the army complete its disembarkation by sunset. That meant every available soldier was involved in the effort. The trade winds stilled and the Caribbean sun beat down unmercifully, heating the well-trod sand and reflecting off the aquamarine waters of the bay with blinding effect. As a net result of so much forced activity, the medical tents were full of men injured through their own carelessness or by someone else's neglectful conduct.

Bernard Marmillon along with the other physicians, aides, and nurses was kept busy all afternoon, patching up the injured and sending them back into the fray. It wasn't until the sun dipped below the line of hills to the west and the horizon turned the color of an open wound that Bernard Marmillon staggered from the medical tent. There were still patients to see, but the other physicians could handle the load. Bernard had worked the entire afternoon without a break just so he could take a couple of hours for himself after sundown.

He'd given up on the idea of a shore dinner, but there was still a bottle of wine and a stretch of isolated beach where a couple might escape prying eyes and enjoy some small measure of respite from this troublesome war. Weary as he was, Bernard's pace quickened as he approached his tent and knocked on the wooden frame to announce himself.

“Joanna?”

No answer. Bernard shoved aside the flap and entered the tent. His cot looked unslept in, which struck him as odd, because earlier in the day, just after supplying the patrol with a map indicating the quickest route to Celestial's hidden valley, Joanna had removed herself to Bernard's quarters, claiming all the symptoms of heat exhaustion. Bernard had been so busy in the medical tent, he had taken no notice of her coming and going. He shrugged and hurried over to his trunk. He unlocked and lifted the wooden lid and, digging beneath a spare uniform, an extra shirt, and underwear, found the bottle of wine he had so jealousy guarded since leaving Florida.

Tucking the bottle and a pair of glasses into the deep pockets of his white medical coat, he emerged from the tent and surveyed the perimeter of the medical compound, then walked out of the circle of firelight to study the crowded beach. A slight, minuscule fear began to nibble away at his confidence. Something was wrong. Joanna had no business among the troops, the majority of whom were already building the cook fires with which to prepare their evening meals of beans, tinned beef, biscuits, and coffee. In the fading light he spied a few longboats making their final run from transports to shore. The sturdy crafts bobbed in the water, oars dipped into the surface of the bay, propelling the boats inexorably to shore.

The successful completion of the landing was of little concern to the love-struck officer. He turned his back on the sea and retraced his steps to the center of the compound, to take a seat at the common table where the medical staff took their meals. A corporal by the name of Ramirez, who had been known to act as surgical assistant when his services as cook weren't required, approached Bernard with a pot of coffee and a blue enamel tin cup.

“Excuse me, sir,” Ramirez said, filling the cup in front of Bernard. The Mexican-American was a dark-haired thirty-year-old man of pleasant disposition, a former trail cook whose culinary talents and a penchant for pleasing anyone of higher ranking had landed him a position with Bernard's command. Ramirez considered the hospital unit his own private domain. Here, duty meant keeping out of harm's way when the bullets began to fly. To insure against a transfer, the former trail cook pampered the physicians at every turn. There was always hot coffee and either biscuits or cinnamon cakes for the medical personnel to snack on. But cooking wasn't Ramirez's only talent, Bernard remembered, and as the man turned to leave with the coffeepot, he reached up and caught him by the wrist.

“Miss Cooper.”

“Sir?”

“Have you seen Miss Cooper?” Bernard asked. “She became ill this afternoon and retired to my tent. I just went to check on her.”

“She's gone.”

“Yes, I found that out for myself,” Bernard somewhat curtly replied. “Did you see her leave?”

Ramirez nodded.
“Sí
. Much hours ago. While you and the other good doctors were caring for the soldiers.”

“But she was ill.”

The cook could only shrug. “She did not ride like someone who was sick.”

“Ride? Dammit man, what are you saying?” Bernard's features were red and angry as he rose to his feet and loomed over the corporal.

“Por favor
, Captain Marmillon,” the cook said, taken aback by the officer's reaction. He retreated until he backed into another table and almost lost his balance. “The lady doctor had a horse tethered back in the trees. I was gathering firewood when I saw her, but she did not see me. She rode a fine animal, a gelding with a white blaze and one white stocking foot.”

Bernard knotted his brows, pain shooting through his skull, admonishing his own carelessness and cursing her duplicity. Damn her for being so incorrigible. “Did she ride toward the water or along the beach?” The captain had to ask, though he knew the answer.

“No,” said the cook. “Up there.” He pointed in the direction of the mountains, patched with shadows of deep purple and black velvet. But Bernard was no longer even looking at the cook. The physician settled back on the bench seat, slumped forward with his elbows resting on the table, his hands folded as if in prayer, his forehead pressed against his knuckles. He sat without moving for several long moments. Ramirez decided to leave the man to his droughts and hurried back to the fire, where he was preparing a stew. Bernard ignored the cook's exit.

Colonel Roosevelt will be furious. There'll be
hell to
pay when he hears Joanna has taken off after Celestial
. My
heaven, how do I tell him? Our only hope is that Sergeant Sandcrane has the good sense to turn back. But, of course, these Indians are so blasted unpredictable. Joanna, you stubborn, willful, conniving, impossible
…

Bernard sighed, reached into his coat, and tugged the dark-green wine bottle from his pocket. Using the blade of his pocket knife, he worked the cork into the bottle, and then, as the dry, slightly tart bouquet assailed his nostrils, raised the wine as if toasting an invisible party seated across the table from him. Actually, he looked to the mountains as they lost their definition against the darkening sky.

“Salud,”
he said, and drank to the health and safety of Joanna Cooper, to this woman, bless her and damn her, who had more courage than sense.

Tom Sandcrane watched and waited beneath the blood-colored sky, allowing the shadows of night to creep like a panther across the low hills. Since leaving Daiquirí, his “war party” of Cheyenne and Creek soldiers had ridden over a rolling forested landscape and cut through meadows of wild grasses tall enough to tickle the bellies of the horses. They had exchanged the palm groves for stands of mahogany, sweet cedar, and logwood. Blooms of brilliant color dotted every meadow and vale to be rivaled only by the feathered creatures he had glimpsed darting across the sky.

And yet all the wonders of this land had not held his attention like the single campfire flickering beneath an outcropping of lichen-splashed limestone. Smoke trailed up from the humble little blaze and dissipated among the branches of the surrounding sandalwood that formed a natural canopy over the campsite.

Philo held the wagon about fifty yards farther back in the woods. Enos guarded their backtrail while Tully Crow and Willem Tangle Hair walked their mounts forward and reined them in to either side of Tom's sorrel. Tully slid the Krag rifle off his shoulder and cradled it in his arms, a finger on the trigger. Willem likewise armed himself.

“Spaniards?” Tully asked.

“Could be,” Tom whispered. “But I don't think so.” Seth, the Arrow Keeper, had often taken his son into the woods, to offset the book learning of the white man. Once in the wild, Tom's father had taught him to read the telltale rustle of a branch and the tracks around a spring, to watch patiently and really see what was happening around him.

Now Tom reached out with his senses, taking in the entire scene, listening for the telltale sound and noting when a mockingbird, preparing to alight among the sandalwood trees, suddenly altered its course and fluttered away. Without realizing it, he let a fragment of song drift from his lips, subduing his initial panic. Encountering the campsite so soon after leaving the comparative safety of the army at Daiquirí had startled Tom. But the song helped him to keep his fears as tightly reined as the sorrel. He unconsciously repeated the song:

“I am the hunter

invisible as a spirit.

Courage is with me.

And strength in my arm.”

Tom became aware of his own singing and, shifting uncomfortably beneath the scrutiny of his curious companions, ended the chant. He walked the sorrel to the edge of the clearing, remaining just inside the shadows. Alone again, Tom studied the campfire, probing the setting in ways the Arrow Keeper's son thought he had forgotten.

This fire had been built to attract attention. And it was concealed from every direction but the one from which the patrol rode. He unfolded the map from his pocket and studied the site where the artist had suggested they make their first camp. Doctor Cooper had indicated a limestone hill with a spring at its base and good grazing for the horses. He lowered the map and saw a meadow of lush grass, a steep hill ringed by an outcropping of limestone. From the look of the fronds sprouting from the base of the ledge, there had to be water ahead.
If I was a betting man, I'd wager this fire was left by the one person who knew we'd be along
, Tom reasoned.

He holstered his revolver and touched his heels to the sorrel's flanks, urging the animal forward. The gelding needed no inducement, for the thirsty creature smelled water.

Tully tried to call the sergeant back, but Tom was a third of the way across the clearing before the Creek could act. And then it was too late.

“What sort of man is this?” Tully complained, fearing Tom was riding into a trap.

“That's what I'm beginning to wonder,” Willem said, raising the rifle to his shoulder. The longer he was around Tom, the more he sensed the chaotic forces at work on the man who had once been his closest friend.

“Hey,” Tully warned, training his own weapon on the redhead.

“I'm aiming at the grove of trees,” Willem coolly remarked. “Something moved.”

The Creek breed grudgingly shifted his aim, though he continued to watch Tangle Hair warily. “You'd better be telling the truth,” he cautioned, “that Tom's backbone ain't in your sights.”

“Don't worry,” Willem said. “He's like a brother to me.” He meant his remarks to sound sarcastic, but the words flowed out with more conviction then he had intended.

“Yeah.” Tully was hardly convinced.

The altercation of the previous evening, and now this long afternoon on horseback, had taken their toll. Tom was ready to make camp for the night. This fire appeared inviting rather than cause for alarm. He dismounted and led the sorrel over to the spring. Lemon-yellow parakeets with olive-dappled wings scattered at his approach and grudgingly fluttered up to a shelf in the limestone wall, where they proceeded to chirp their complaints at Tom's intrusion.

“Doctor Cooper … you made good time,” Tom said in a loud voice. “However, I think your map was not completely accurate. Perhaps there was a shorter route to this spring than what you drew.” He turned his back to the pool of water and faced the grove of sandalwood trees as Joanna Cooper strolled out of concealment. She was dressed for the trail, in a loose-fitting shirt and army-issue trousers. A gunbelt circled her waist. Her hair was pulled back from her face and tied with a leather string. She clutched a wide-brimmed straw hat filled with custard apples whose rough, greenish-brown skin looked unappealing. She knelt and placed the hat by the campfire.

“A small but necessary omission. How did you know it was me?”

When his answer was not forthcoming, Joanna glanced up. The expression on the Cheyenne's face was one she would not forget. The man seemed painfully confused and terribly unnerved. What secrets were hidden behind the mask he presented to the world? What was the mystery behind his torment?